It might last
by iciclesfromcynthia
Summary: Elena made her choice; Damon makes his. It is a little more permanent though: he forgets Elena altogether. The problem is, Elena changed her mind. S3 Finale AU.


The wind whispers behind her, and it's Damon—Elena is sure of it. She has developed a formidable detector for all things him: his scent, his hitch of breath, his presence have all branded themselves into a special place in her head, reserved right for him, and the central character stays ignorant throughout this entire exchange. She thinks she should have more power over her own body; if only that's the case, everything would be much less complicated.

And right now, Damon is an undiscouraged ghost behind her. He must have seen the slight stiffening of her shoulder and realize that she is ignoring him on purpose.

He still doesn't leave.

Elena sighs and turns around. "What do you want, Damon?"

She said this line so many times it's without consciousness. She can mouth the words, make them sound and stare at his smooth expense of his neck simultaneously, pondering on how it'd feel if she were a vampire, drinking right there. His countenance would twist into something vulnerable just for her; it's sexy and something she stoically throws out of her head behind her.

Normally, Elena would react to these sorts of, _encounters_, with exasperation. But for the first time since she have met him—he is speechless. Damon just stood there, looking lost and forlorn and it's because of her.

They stood there as time drizzle by. It's raining outside and the _pat pat pat _against her roof is what she focus on, unwilling to break the silence. He started it; he came here when they should have seen each other in the next morning and pretend all are water under the bridge. Pretend her choice would wipe out everything that's between them.

Alas, he speaks. "You said that…" Damon pauses, looking directionless once again. He takes an involuntary step towards Elena.

He rewords uncertainly. "If you and I met first, would it have really mattered?" His eyes are glinting, wide, and suspiciously wet; voice bearing some an underlying subtext, emotion that she doesn't understand.

Yes, she thinks. But if she says yes now, all the pain and tears and selflessness will be rendered dust. She would be Katherine.

So Elena tightens her mouth and tells him lightly: "No. I said that to let you off easy."

The words sink in and Damon progressively shrinks by the second. Then he glances away, something at her left, and laughs ruefully. "I knew it, and still I needed for you to say it."

Elena doesn't know what else to say. His eyes cloud over with disappointment.

"I am a masochist, aren't I?" he sighs softly. "Goodbye, Elena."

And like that, he's gone, taking bits of her heart with him. That's the last time she ever saw Damon, the one who loved her.

..

.

..

Damon left Mystic Falls. For the first few weeks, Elena forged happiness with Stefan. Then when it became utterly unbearable, she burst at the seams with questions, demands—all of which no one met, or did meet with sad smiles._ It's what I wanted, _she reminds herself when Stefan mouths at her collarbone, hand against her breast. _It's what I wanted, _and a tear wells up in her eye. Stefan gently inquires and she insists—

"Nothing, I am just happy."

Stefan doesn't believe it but nods anyways. She loves him more for that, and solely wishes she can give him what he wants.

She often sits in her kitchen and contemplates. Damon will come back. Maybe after a long while, but he will be here soon; once again as the snarky, smirking, stubborn presence by her side. He will continually love her, long for her while she sleeps in Stefan's arms. Elena cries the day when she realized she is really no different from Katherine at all. She have failed; she loves them both.

A year passed, and that love for one is lost. Stefan still tries, but it's painful, glass cracking, showing the truth constantly. Finally, he initiated an end. In his eyes are resentment, relief and crazy chaos of love, sentiments. Elena gazes into it and sees only the past. _I am sorry_, she mouths as she packs her bags with swift gestures, an address—her salvation—clutched tightly in her hand. _Me too_, he says back.

She takes her Mini Cooper, loads it up with her bags and just _drives_. Towards _1378 Hickory Street, Seattle,_ an address of which is permanently seared into her very being. She closes her eyes against the sun and sees it in red. She wakes up to the neat writing it was written in. Not a minute went by without a whisper of it.

Truthfully, the drive is freeing; an overall period of too much time for her to reflect. She tries to remember Damon's face (for there were no picture of him left behind) but it's blurry, more ridden with want and feeling than features. How she ever thought he was the one she loved less, it remains unknown.

The distance put behind her is a reminder for what she's leaving behind and it's liberating—all the freedom from her restraints. Elena finds genuine smiles at last, one she thought were long-lost. She lives out of fast food and her car for days but she felt happier than she did in a long while.

On the last day in Seattle, Elena finds herself a motel; her avoidance of mirrors and personal hygiene manifested itself as a gaunt, dirty face. And that night, a pampering took place in anticipation of seeing _him_.

With glowing skin, sleek hair, red lips she slips on a dress; all of her—she would offer to him.

She hopes it will be enough.

.

..

.

Upon arriving on Hickory Street at night, Elena startles a little. On the location sits a club, a title proclaimed proudly in red and a loud, packed lineup of girls with too-heavy makeup and inadequate clothing. She fumbles for the worn slip of paper, checks the address on both signs. They are identical. How was she supposed to find him in the masses? Her heart drops, but her determination persists. She is Elena Gilbert, the epitome of willpower, and she will find him.

After many heartbeats, she is inside. The club itself is overheated and intimate; what she wants foremost is a damn drink, or two. She needs them to get through the night.

Suddenly, she halts; in view of the bar was_ him_._ Damon_. After a year—he looked exactly as he did before. Elena's teeth clenches reflexively when she caught sight of whom he was talking to, but softens wondrously: he's a bartender and still absolutely beautiful.

Step after step she finds herself a few feet away from him. _Damon_, she tries to utter, but can't. Almost telepathically, he steals a glance at her from behind the counter, and with grave patience, he drags one corner of his mouth into a smirk. The girl companion makes an indignant noise but Damon doesn't take his eyes off Elena.

Elena feels ready to pass out before he parts his lips.

"How can I help _you_?" he asks suggestively, feeling her bodily with his gaze.

She says, "Damon."

For some reason, his smile wavers before he speaks again.

"Well, that's my name," Damon splays his hand before him, a gesture of modest display.

"What's yours, sweetheart?" His smile grows bolder, and when they make eye contact, his held only aroused speculation, curiosity, and perhaps startled desire—but nothing more. It was like meeting a stranger, a stranger with the same face and same eyes and same expression and same personality.

It was having everything and nothing.

The piece of paper slips out of her hand.

* * *

Three essays have put me in a writing mood :)

I am even writing a chapter two of my abandoned ingratiation, which is awesome.

Reviews? Critiques? Flames? Yes, please.


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